


Happy Hour

by FrankCastlesTankTop (SecretlyWritingFanfic)



Series: Kastle Smut Week 2018 [3]
Category: Marvel, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: End of story, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Frank dates Karen, Josie's is literally the greasiest spot but everyone loves it, Karen Page drinks bourbon on the rocks, Karen doesn't date, Kastle network, Marvel Universe, Present tense to future tense, The Punisher, Tropes On Tropes On Tropes, i love it, kastle - Freeform, kastlesmutweek2k18, shout out to the biker gangs Frank has't scrapped with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 09:52:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16060658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretlyWritingFanfic/pseuds/FrankCastlesTankTop
Summary: For the thirsty Thursday prompt:fake relationship/dating





	Happy Hour

Josie’s on a Saturday night is standing-room only. It’s a familiar crowd at max capacity: old bikers with mugs behind the bar, construction teams with hometowns and a union in common; glassy eyed hipsters, MTA workers, nine-to-fivers, and a tall blonde sitting four stools down from it all. She nurses her bourbon on the rocks in silence, never stays for more than two, and clears out well before the fights start.

Since she started making the fourth stool a habit last year, there’s been an unspoken agreement among the regulars to keep an eye on her. The suspiciously heavy purse leaves no doubt she can handle herself if needed, but she’s a favorite of Josie, and the matron’s approval isn’t easy to earn. More than a few tough-guys and bombed yuppies slumming it in The Kitchen have lurched her way, only to meet a wall of greying muscle or stumble over unseen work boots. 

Most nights she doesn’t look up from her drink, but she’ll smile behind that curtain of blonde hair when the regulars move into action. 

The bar passed its occupancy limit hours ago. The air is thick with humidity, thumping bass, and a chattering fug of voices. She’s there, leaning over a sweating glass, playing her fingers through beads of water as if she’s the only one in the room. Her silk blouse is tucked into the high waist of her tailored wool skirt. Her hair is pinned in a loose twist that exposes her neck and shoulders. She smiles at Josie in passing, then returns to her drink. 

At the pool table a feral pack of day traders, already five pitchers down, are getting rowdy. One of them rides his pool cue like Seabiscuit while the rest giggle and try to post selfies. The wifi is shit here on purpose, but these idiots never seem to care. Their camera flashes reflect on butter-blonde hair; illuminate the slim lines of a woman alone at the bar. A pack member drifts towards the fourth stool.

“Bro, hold my beer.”

A quick look passes from the union guys to the bikers. Big Mac, a 60-something round-bellied brawler in a stained t-shirt and leather vest, gives a small thumbs up. He looms behind the bro, who’s closing in on her fast. 

“Sup, lil’ mama. I got that next drink.” 

The ice clinks as she lifts her glass. She takes a slow, steady sip, then holds the rim to her lip. Big Mac is breathing down the bro’s neck, ready to move. Her head tilts towards them.

“You look more like a beer guy,” she says. 

“Looks can be deceiving,” he answers with a smirk.  


“Not interested.” 

“Not my problem,” He pushes in, moves to put a hand over her arm. “It’s after 11, and you’re by yourself. Don’t be a snob.”

She flicks him away, “I’m good, thanks.” 

“Not yet. Lemme make you better.” 

“She’s good, dickhead.” The reply is all gravel, and the guy it belongs to is just as rough: heavy beard, boxer’s nose, and a collection of bruises painting dark shadows across his cheeks and down the neckline of his Henley. He’s materialized at her shoulder, hip nudging her barstool and an elbow bracketing hers on the bar. 

“Man, fuck off – the lady’s busy.” The bro flexes minutely in his sweat-damp Oxford. 

“Am I?” She answers and rests against the boxer’s deep chest. He drops his mouth to her jaw and leaves a soft kiss that makes her smile. 

“Look pretty busy to me.” The boxer growls. He lifts his eyes to Big Mac. The biker smiles, then lays shovel-sized hands on the bro to escort him outside. The day traders go quiet. One by one, they leave their glasses on the pool table and slink towards the door. 

She lifts her glass to toast each one as they file past, putting her weight on the boxer. He smooths one hand along her waist and tucks thick fingers in the crease of her hip. 

“Bryce is a good guy,” a day trader offers on his way out, “He just had a rough week.”

“’Bout to get rougher.” The boxer responds. He lifts his hand to stroke her stomach and smiles when her eyelids flutter in response. She’s blushing.

Big Mac will be a few more minutes out front, and his guys are getting antsy to join him. A look passes from a biker to a teamster, to the boxer: all good? She leans between them and nods: just fine. 

The first blood of the evening is about to be spilled. Josie’s regulars wouldn’t miss it for the world. They leave their beers and head for the door. 

“So, how ‘bout that next drink?” The boxer’s lips are at her ear, murmuring beneath the bar’s rising din. He’s closed over her, chest against her back and full palms framing her ribs. She arches, letting the slight pressure of her shoulders and spine answer. 

She lifts her glass and drains it in two swallows. Spinning on the stool, she looks up through her lashes. 

“I’m good for the night. How about you walk me home?”

His hands are rough and scarred, but gentle when wrapped around her waist. He lifts her down, holds her in place and grins ear-to-ear. 

“Might need to stop along the way.” 

It’s October, but the night is warm. There’s a rooftop garden a block from the bar. 

They’ll leave together with her soft, white hand folded into his. They’ll skirt a ring of bystanders in front of Josie’s. Big Mac’s boys will be engaged in a full out melee with the day traders. She won’t answer when Bryce calls her a bitch, instead pulling the boxer to a halt and pressing her hands against his chest.

“One second.” She’ll purr, and gently tap the shoulders of a few onlookers to make room. 

They’ll part, and she’ll step into the center of the brawl. Bryce will square up, sneering: the picture of bloodied rejection with Mac’s knuckles outlined in red on his chin. Her fist will connect with his jaw, and he’ll drop to the ground. There will be a few light claps as she departs. The boxer will take her hand as if she is descending from a carriage. 

He’ll walk her up three flights to the garden and kiss her under the stars. She’ll taste like bourbon and melt against him like spring snow. 

He will unwrap her soft jacket and find her skirt’s side zipper. She’ll moan and curve into him, pressing her stomach and breasts against the firm lines of his body. The way he’ll scoop both hands beneath her ass to lift her will make them both gasp. She’s lithe and flexible, and will easily wrap her legs around his hips. Her ankles will lock behind him and give his legs room to move. 

They’ll land softly (he’ll never let her down) among blankets and jackets, and he will trail his mouth across her skin. She will keen and clutch at his shoulders. Her cool fingers will comb through the thick hair curling back from his forehead, and grip tight when he tongues at the hollow of her clavicle. 

“Frank,” she’ll whisper to the night sky, and raise her hips to meet his.

They’ll be soft here, on a Saturday night above the city with the sound of traffic far below them. He will lift high over her, and she will writhe beneath him, flushed and smiling; her blood pounding and heart racing. 

“Frank.” She’ll say again, and he will fall to earth to be with her. He will cover her skin with his mouth, nip pink half-moons on her chest and inner thighs. He will coax her knees as wide as they’ll go before nosing close to taste her. 

At first, she will sigh.

She will clutch at his hair and buck into his mouth, rolling her hips as she gasps into the night, “There. Oh, there.” 

And when she comes, he will hold her thighs tight against his ears and feel her pulse race, then slow against his tongue. 

She will pant softly, loose-limbed and smiling as he rises on hands and knees to kiss her. She will lick at the corners of his mouth and tug at his beard, encouraging their bodies to rock together. He will be gentle, not wanting to mar the glow of her orgasm. But she will not be gentle. She will curl and reach for his waist, pulling until his belt is close enough to unbuckle and his well-worn jeans are gathering at his knees. 

“We could go somewhere,” He will whisper, brushing her hair from her face. There is enough city light to illuminate her shape and cast her profile in shadow. She will chase his hand with her mouth, catching his thumb in her teeth. 

“We already have.” 

And it will be all he needs to go further. He will fit himself to her with a hungry growl. He will feel her body slowly open for him. He will skim his palm across her thigh and take the crest of her hip in hand. He will push deep until her head falls back and sate himself with her warmth. She will dig her nails into his shoulders and twist at the waist, eager to take more of him. To make him hum and growl as sweat drips from his neck and face – salt on her tongue and stars behind her eyes. 

“Karen. Oh, Karen. Oh, honey.” 

She will give him a wide-mouthed grin as her eyes slide shut – everything is too much, and she needs the grinding rhythm of Frank inside her, around her. The groan and hush of their voices together.  
He will bite down on a harsh breath; pulling air down into his lungs as she clenches around him, draws him deeper, makes him shake apart and lose control of his pace. There will be her skin, her eyes, her cool hands and hot mouth on his. 

And after, when he pulls her to him and buries his nose in her hair, he will offer a small smile she cannot see (but will feel). 

“Wonder what my boyfriend will say,” she will murmur, sleepy and safe in his arms.

“Mmm,” he will reply, “Wasn’t it: ‘She’s good’?”


End file.
